


The Lunch Date

by abbichicken



Category: Just William - Richmal Crompton
Genre: Awkward Dates, Lunch, Reunion, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 01:30:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13113072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbichicken/pseuds/abbichicken
Summary: “William, I really would appreciate it ever so much if you would just go, without arguing. I know you’ve never been particularly fond of her, but…your Father and I would dearly love it if you could humour us, just this once.”





	The Lunch Date

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrsredboots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsredboots/gifts).



> Hi hi! I love writing William, will always bite for prompts like yours, and hope that this is a fun treat to receive at Yuletide!

“William, I really would appreciate it ever so much if you would just go, without arguing. I know you’ve never been particularly fond of her, but…your Father and I would dearly love it if you could humour us, just this once.”  
  
William sniffed, thoughtfully. It was a pleasant change to maintain the upper hand.  
  
“You remember the bit in the paper,” his mother continued, “about the new management in her father’s company? ‘New Head of Botts’ Sauce Looking to Shake Things Up!’ Since your father’s company made those…changes last year, you know how difficult it’s been.”  
  
William nodded. Even he, with his own very busy and important life had noticed that his father’s redundancy was taking its toll on things. Living at home as he did, it more than made sense for him to give half his rather reasonable wages from the sweetshop to his mother in exchange for food and the continued inhabiting of his old room – better still, Robert and Ethel had never given a penny when they outstayed the usual welcome, and he would never tire of basking in the one-upmanship his ability to support his parents in their time had given him.  
  
Robert had left university with a surprisingly reasonable degree only to return seemingly moments later to study Political Philosophy {“Simply _vital_ in this day and age!” he had insisted, when Father had had the gall to suggest employment might be rather closer to what was needed in this day and age); this at least meant that he occupied halls, rather than the house, for the vast majority of the year. He had oh-so-graciously offered William his old room for such time as he was away, but William, always recognising an opportunity for superiority, had declined with excessive politeness (not least because Robert’s room didn’t have any of the under-floorboard storage William had cultivated over the years).  
Ethel had married a ‘nice enough actor chap’ from the city to whom William felt she had only taken a shine as he inhabited a rather poky apartment in the West End where apparently “absolutely everything was at”, and, whilst initially William was surprised to find he rather missed his big sister’s by turns reproving and gently amused presence, she had made up for it by writing him really rather exciting letters about her escapades, and all the stars of the stage she was hobnobbing with on a regular basis. A standing invitation lay there for him to come and _see a show, any show, I’ll always get someone to let you in_. As far as he understood it, she did something with costumes sometimes, which, given the size and complexity of Ethel’s wardrobe, seemed as good a pursuit as any, and William had greatly enjoyed the letter in which she requested some suggestions for pirate costumes – he wrote back to that one with a twelve-page illustrated book, and she had once more invited him to come down and _just take a meeting with my friend Miranda_ , but William had never really wanted to spend more than a day at a time in London, and was saving up his goodwill visit for once he’d got his Christmas bonus.  
  
Siblings thus settled, William was making the most of being the last to flee the nest. He suspected his parents assumed he would never marry, and William himself thought this might just be the case. All the girls around the village were ones who’d known him since he was an irritating little boy, and the fact that they had been irritating little girls didn’t endear them to him any more. Occasionally he thought of the exceptions that had proved the rules: Diana, for example, often one to come to mind around Christmas. One of the reasons he hadn’t taken Ethel up on her offer is that he likes to think that perhaps she plies her trade in the theatre herself, now, and that one day he’ll find her there, and she’ll be just as entranced by him as ever, and they’ll…  
  
…but that is a story best left in William’s imagination.  
  
“Alright,” he said to his mother. “But don’t go blamin’ me if they throw me out of their fancy restaurant….”  
  
“Perhaps if you brushed your hair, William,” his mother said, wistfully, but did not pursue the matter, for William had already left the room. She did not dare hope, but since the invitation for _Mr. William Brown_ had tipped itself onto the mat this morning, it had been nagging away at her as perhaps the only chance to return her husband to an office of any sort, that her house might once more become the home she had always worked so hard to maintain.  
  
The morning of the luncheon arrived. William was not without trepidation, and, he found, the desire to make a good impression was stronger than usual. He had not left the Village for quite some time, and to be met with humiliation in this more fashionable district would not be worth anybody’s time. 

  


He not only brushed his hair, but washed his face, scrubbed his fingernails, pressed his own trousers without scorching them once, and, most unusual of all, buffed his shoes. 

  


His father didn’t so much as look over the newspaper as William, with the air of one off to conquer an unknown adversary, announced “I’m goin’ out now!” His mother, though, clasped both hands together and gave a little gasp.  
  
“Thank you, William,” she whispered, as she opened the door for him.  
  
William took the bus, something he would never usually, but in this instance, keeping the dust off his shoes, and lessening the chance of distractions seemed the best option. 

  


The Petersham was a grand, gothic building, and William was not used to entering such things at least through the front doors. The doorman, seeing his hesitation, called out, “Can I help you, Sir?” and William, summoning his best spirits, attempted not to turn beetroot red, and replied, in his most distinguished voice, “Er, yes! I’m meetin’…g…Miss Bott.”

  


“Ah! Do come this way, do, she’s already at the table and expecting you. Excellent weather for the time of year, wouldn’t you say, Sir?”

  


William simply stared at the man, wondering what the weather might have to do with it all, but then realised he was only to follow him in. 

  


The hotel extended through several finely-decorated corridors, lined with the sort of landscape artistry William had never seen the point of, and finally came to a fine dining room, set for silver service, bustling with solidly-coiffed waiters serving small plates of small things to people so overdressed that William, in merely a suit and tie, felt as if he’d forgotten to put a shirt on. 

  


There, at a neat table for two by the window, overlooking the Thames, sat, unthinkably, but also unmistakably, Violet Elizabeth Bott, formerly of The Hall. 

  


Her once-maddeningly glossy and over-active ringlets were gone, no longer bouncing about her rounded face in a cascade of mirth; her hair was shorter even than William’s now, much darker than it had been, and entirely flat around her head, neat wisps framing round, rosy cheeks, and sparklingly dark eyes. 

  


She was tearing a bread roll into very small pieces, and eating them without any butter at all. A large glass of wine sat in front of her. William had not imagined Violet Elizabeth as the wine sort, he thought, and then he wondered to himself if he had imagined her as any sort.

  


It had been several years since they last met. There had been a near miss a year or so ago. She had asked William to accompany her to a dance of some sort, and, despite discovering that he was rather partial to, if not exactly skilled at, the noble art of dance, William had been ever so grateful that it coincided with a nasty bout of shingles, which had kept him bedridden and in a sort of quarantine.

  


"William!" she said, on catching sight of him, standing up with a screech of her chair, almost striking a passing waiter.

  


William paled, but continued forwards, resolve strong.

  


"Hullo," he said, advancing, a hand thrust forward in greeting.

  


To his surprise, instead of running through her usual pantomime of insisting he kiss the back of her hand, she took the proffered handshake warmly, firmly, and with the largest of grins.

  


"Oh, _William_!" she exclaimed, in the most joyous of tones. "Ith _tho_ good to thee you!"

  


She was unmistakeably Violet Elizabeth Bott in voice, and manner, but in appearance, she was so different, William could hardly believe his eyes.

  


"How's, er...how's things?" he said.

  


"Thit down, thit down! Have a glath of wine! Ith very good. French, you know."

  


"Oh, er, yes."

  


She giggled, the peal of laughter as familiar as ever it was, and yet this time William found he didn't mind quite so much as he used to. Gone, it seemed, were the days when that sound would send a flood of ice through his veins.

  


“What thall we eat? I’d thimply love thom melon, wouldn’t you?”  
  
“Er…yes?” He couldn’t recall ever having had it before, but saying yes seemed to be the easiest way forwards. 

  


"What've you been, er, doing?" he tried, once Violet Elizabeth had yoo-hoo’d her way to placing her order with ingratiating sweetness to one of the waiters, who, if he disliked being spoken to thus, hid it very well indeed. 

  


The melon arrived almost before he’d finished his sentence.

  


" _Well_ ," Violet Elizabeth began, picking up her fork and a spoon, and sitting up very straight in her chair. "I have taken over as the chairman of Daddy's buthineth!"

  


"Oh, er, the...Botts' sauce..." 

  


"Yeth! Ithn't it wonderful?" 

  


William was busy chasing the melon around his plate with the spoon. He looked helplessly at Violet Elizabeth, and realised with a sense of relief that the little fork to the left could be gainfully employed here.  
  
He realised them that she was waiting for a response. "Yeth...er, yes. Yes, it is. Chairman?" He furrowed his brow a little. 

  


"Ith jutht a title, William. When you're in charge, you can call yourthelf whatever you like, tho I'm the Chairman, and everybody hath to call me it!"

  


"Oh. Well that's...is it..." Small talk had truly never been William's forte.

  


"You thee, I was thuppothed to graduate from this _nathty_ little thcool in Thwitherland thith year, but honethtly William, they wanted me to get rid of my lithp, can you imagine?"

  


"Er..."

  


"They thaid tho many horrid thingth about it! Tried to get me to do all thorts of horrible tethth and ektherthithes. But I wouldn't! I told them, I did, I told them that I will thpeak jutht the way I like, and I like my lithp, and I will have it jutht ath long ath I like!"

  


"That's...yes, course."

  


"Tho anyway, when Daddy wath..." she faltered a little, just for a moment "when he wath ill, I thaid to Mummy, don't you worry, I will come home and thtep right in, and of courth thee wath very worried about it, but ith jutht what I wanted, and then when..." a touch more faltering, followed by a pause, during which Violet Elizabeth drained her glass and waved, without looking around her, for a top-up, which duly appeared, "then I jutht got on with thingth. I jutht had to. Mummy needed me to. Tho here I am! I think it thuits me. Do you think it thuits me, William?"

  


William nodded so forcefully he hurt his neck slightly, partly because it did suit her very well indeed, and also because he felt it was very, very important that she knew he was impressed. He couldn't have said why that felt important, but it was virtually the most important thing he'd ever had to convey in his life. Somehow, over the course of the starter, Violet Elizabeth had become the only thing that mattered.

  


"But here I am talking about mythelf, on and on, and now I've told you many thingth and I don't know how you are!"

  


"I'm...sorry," William said. "About your dad, and the business, and everything."

  


"Don't be. I'm ever tho good at running a buthineth, William. I've read all the fileth and done a lot of thumth. People were very thurprithed at how organithed I am. Almotht ath if they thought that becauth I can't thay 'th' I might not be able to do everything elth." She smiled, a false, illustrative smile. "Are you running a buthineth, too?"

  


"Oh, er, sort of. You know the sweetshop?"

  


"Oh! Tell me you run the thweethop? Do you remember when you gave me all thoth bulltheyeth? And Mummy was _tho_ croth - it wath ever tho funny! Wathn't it funny?"

  


William had a slightly different memory of the sticky, anxious child who, when reunited with her mother, had simply cried about how unfair it was that she had never had bullseyes before, and the terrible misunderstanding that followed over the nature of the bullseye was one of the great many escapades young William had consigned to the dustbin of history.

  


"Yes," he said, after a moment. "Maybe." He realises he's smiling, though. His face is starting to hurt, just a little bit, with the smiling, which was initially a response, but is now something of an inclination. He's so busy thinking about the nature of smiling that he realises he's fallen silent, which is such an unusual habit that it takes a moment now to clear the fog of confusion. "Sweetshop..." he continues. "Yes. Old Mr. Morton, you know. He broke his leg one winter the year after the war and now he can't stand behind the counter, and he said he was getting angry with everything, what with all the rations and that not going away, and I said I bet I could sell lots of things if we told people they were healthy sweets, you know, liquorice sticks and that sort of thing, all this _nutrishon_ stuff and he bet I couldn't, but I did, and then he said I could work there all week, and Mother and Father had been saying they didn't know what they were going to do with me, and so, here I am."

  


She clapped her hands together twice, but it wasn't annoying, and it wasn't silly. Her smile was so bright, so cheerful.

  


It was one of the nicest dinners he had ever had. They ate rabbit, tied up in little parcels of…something, and with a sort of hard bread, and strange, salty vegetables that tasted to William like some seaweed he’d once been told off for eating out of a rock pool. That would be just like a fancy restaurant, he thought, takin’ things you could get for free and putting them on small plates and making them ever so expensive. 

  


He recast himself, briefly, as a grand, French-accented chef, shouting orders and plating up all sorts of food from outside, and smiled to himself.  
  
“What are you thinkin’ about, William?” Violet Elizabeth asked, and, to his surprise, he answered her.  
  
To his further surprise, she did not make fun of him, but clapped again, and began to tell him about all the things they could do, if only they had a restaurant.  
  
“You could make rethipeth from my thauth!” she exclaimed, triumphant, before moving on to discuss thoughts she’d had about how fresh flowers really make any room.  
  
William found himself agreeing in a way he could not have imagined, carried along on a tide of delight.  
  
The dessert was a crème caramel, rich and wobbling, and William wolfed it down in a moment, so delighted was he to have something that tasted of pre-war times, when everything was butter, and sugar was easily come by. Since they’d got had to say goodbye to the help, pudding at home was only ever a sponge, hot with jam, or Victoria on Sundays. 

  


At the end, there was coffee, dark and so strong, William thought he’d burnt himself. And then, then, an icy chill descended, as the waiter presented Violet Elizabeth with a slip of paper, and William felt his very bones freeze. What had his mother said before he left? Approach the waiter discreetly and ask that the bill be sent on? Too late for that now.

  


Violet Elizabeth turned her face up to the waiter's, and said, "Thank you George!" with such casual pleasantry.

  


"I don't -" William started.

  


"Oh ith fine, William!" Violet Elizabeth said, waving a hand as if to illustrate just how fine it was. "The buthineth thupplies thauth to thith rethtaurant for no charge, I jutht do all my buthineth meetingth here inthtead! Ith made them _very_ fathionable you know. All thorth of people come here now!"

  


William couldn't deny that, indeed, all sorts of the very rich sort of people did indeed seem to be all around him.

  


"You can pay me back nectht week!" she said.

  


“Next week?”

  


“Oh yeth! I meant to thay. Mummy and I were remembering how lovely your parenth are, and you know, thee’th been ever tho lonely thinth…you know.”

  


William nodded, remembering suddenly why exactly he’d been meant to attend in the first place.

  


“Tho I wath thinking, perhapth we could come over nectht week for tea!”

  


“Oh, er…I don’t think it’d be very much,” he said, trying to imagine the vivacious Mrs. Bott in his parents’ little living room. “See, er, I meant to say, you know my Father’s company…what with everything…he’s not…he got…”  
  
“Oh dear, William! They didn’t fire him, did they?”  
  
William nodded. Violet Elizabeth placed the back of her hand against her forehead, gently.  
  
“How thimply _awful_. Well, that thettlth it!”  
  
“It…does?”  
  
“Your father’th thuch a _nithe_ man, William. I jutht know I’ll find thomthing for him! We can talk about it nectht week, over tea! Oh, thay you’ll athk your mother, William? For me?”

  


“For you…” William said, surprising himself entirely, “anything.”  
  
He blushed.

  


  


* * * *

“How…how was it?” asked William’s mother, with half a breath held in at the end of the sentence.

“’S alright,” William said. “She’s quite a bit diffr’nt now.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Brown, unsure as to how to take this comment.

“Hair ‘n’ stuff. Very diffr’nt. Oh yes, she said she’d like to come over for tea next week and talk about it.”

Mrs. Brown looked somewhat taken about. “You mean…”

“Oh, she’s runnin’ the whole thing now. The sauce thing. Like you said Father wanted to get into. An’ she’s in charge. Said she’d always thought Father was a good man an’ she’s sure she’s got a job for him.”

“And she’s coming to tea?”

“I think,” William said, his head tilting to one side, and his eyes drifting upwards a little, “I think we might get married one day.”

If Mrs. Brown had been the fainting type, this might just have done it. Instead, she clutched the table firmly, a combination of fearful and excited, and said simply, as she had, so very many times before, “Oh, _William_!”


End file.
